The dark and stormy wasn’t too bad if you like dark rum and ginger beer in the same glass, which I don’t.

We took our drinks and moved into the big main room, which hadn’t changed too much and still looked very nautical with all the club members’ private flags hanging from the ceiling molding surrounding the room, and the cabinet full of racing trophies, a few of which I’d won.

There were a number of people sitting or standing in the main room having cocktails, and a few of them looked at us and did double takes, and some waved and we returned the greeting, though none got up from their seats to chat. I guessed they were surprised to see me, and to see Susan and me together, and no one wanted to be the first to come over and ask, “So, what is this all about?” I knew that after we’d passed through the room, tongues would wag, and possibly someone would be deputized to approach the formerly married Sutters and get the scoop.

In fact, before we got to the double doors that went out to the porch, a woman appeared in front of us, and it took me a second to recognize Mrs. Althea Gwynn, one of the grand dames of the old order, who, as I recalled, fancied herself the arbiter of good manners and acceptable behavior. Her husband, Dwight, I also recalled, was a decent man, who’d either suffered a stroke or was faking it so he didn’t have to speak to her.

Anyway, Mrs. Gwynn smiled tightly at me and Susan, and said to me, “I had heard that you were back, John.”

“I am.”

“How wonderful. And where are you living?”

“At home.”

“I see…”

Susan informed her, “John and I are back together.”

“That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you both.”

I really didn’t think so, but I replied, “Thank you.”

Mrs. Gwynn looked at me and said, “The last time I saw you, John – it has to be ten years now – you and Susan were dining at The Creek with… another couple who I believe were new to the area.”

“Oh, yes, I remember that. I believe that was Mr. Frank Bellarosa and his wife, Anna, formerly of Brooklyn.”

Mrs. Gwynn seemed a little surprised that I’d be so blunt – I was supposed to just say, “Has it been that long?”

Susan said to me, “It was Frank and Anna, darling. I remember that.”

I replied to Susan, “That’s right. We were welcoming them to the neighborhood.” I added, “But they didn’t stay long.”

Mrs. Gwynn didn’t know quite what to say, so she said, “Excuse me,” and walked off.

Susan put her arm through mine, and we continued through the room. She said to me, “That was very nice of Althea to greet us.”

“She’s a wonderful woman,” I agreed, “to get up off her fat ass to pry.”

“Now, now, John. She was just remarking that it’s been ten years since she’s seen you.”

“Right. We were dining at The Creek with… who was that?”

“The Bellarosas, darling. Formerly of Brooklyn.”

We both laughed.

Well, it was a little funny, and Mrs. Gwynn was one of a dying breed, and not as important as she thought she was. But in her world, she’d done what she was put on this earth to do. And I was in awe of her steadfast snootiness and snobbery, especially since Susan was a Stanhope.

Anyway, Susan changed the subject and said, “I have your flag, and when we buy a boat, we’ll have it rehung.”

I wondered what had become of my boat flag; I know what became of my boat, so I said, “I’m not sure of my status here.”

She thought about that and replied, “You’re allowed to sink one boat every ten years.”

I smiled, but wondered how many lovers you were allowed to kill before you were banished forever. I gave myself a mental slap on the face for that.

Susan added, “When we’re married, you’ll be a member, and I will buy us a nice forty-footer that we’ll take down to the Caribbean for our honeymoon.”

I commented, “This deal is getting much better,” but I wondered if she understood that her six-figure-a-year allowance was at serious risk as a result of that honeymoon.

We walked out to the long, wrap-around covered porch, found two chairs, and sat facing the bay.

It was just 7:00 P.M., and the sun was sinking over the land to the southwest. Out on the lawn, which swept down to the water, the American flag billowed in a soft southerly breeze atop a tall flagpole, and the barbecue was in full swing. I noticed a lot of young couples and kids – more than I remembered in the past. The McMansion People.

Susan and I, as children and teenagers, came here with our parents, who were members, but the Stanhopes and the Sutters did not know one another, and neither Susan nor I could recall ever meeting, and if we did, it was not memorable.

My father had owned a beautiful seventeen-foot Thistle, and he’d taught me how to sail, which is one of my fondest memories of him.

William, my once and future father-in-law, a.k.a. Commodore Vomit, had not actually owned a sailboat; he didn’t know how to sail, but he had owned a number of power yachts, though large power craft are not encouraged to be kept here at the club. William and Charlotte’s membership at Seawanhaka Corinthian was mostly social, which was another skill he wasn’t good at.

I looked out at the three club docks, which jutted about a hundred feet into the bay. The Junior Club dock was crowded with adolescents, male and female, who were happy to be away from their parents, and who seemed to be engaged in pre-mating rituals. I recalled doing the same thing when I was young, and I also recalled that the boys, and even some of the girls, used to horse around a lot on the dock, and someone usually wound up in the water. I asked Susan, “Did you ever get thrown in the water?”

“At least once a week.” She reminisced, “This beastly boy, James Nelson, used to show his adolescent affection for me by throwing me off the dock.”

“You should have married him.”

“I would have, but I suspected he wasn’t going to grow out of it.” She asked me, “Did you throw girls off the dock?”

“I may have.”

“Did anyone throw you off the dock?” she asked.

“Only my mother, and only when she could find an anchor to tie around my ankle.”

“John. Don’t be awful.”

We held hands, and I looked south across the water. I could see the lights of the village of Oyster Bay, where I nearly had a new career, and I wondered if Anthony was still going to buy that building. It annoyed me, of course, that this man, whose fortune was so closely tied to criminal activity, had so much money. I’d felt the same way about his father. But I reminded myself, people like that don’t sleep well at night. Or if they did, their waking hours must be filled with dread and anxiety. And usually, the law, or a bullet, caught up with them. In fact, I hoped the bullet would catch up to Anthony, soon.

Susan said, “It’s so beautiful here.”

“It is.” The sunlight was sparkling on the water, and a few dozen sailboats and power boats were out on the bay, and fair-weather clouds moved slowly across the blue sky. I looked to the southeast toward Cove Neck, where Teddy Roosevelt’s house, Sagamore Hill, was now a National Historical Site, and where a few Roosevelts still lived, including old friends of ours, so I asked Susan, “Have you stayed in touch with Jim and Sally?”

She replied, “I did for some years, but they’ve moved to San Diego.”

“What are they doing in Mexico?”

“Southern California.” She suggested, “Stop being an East Coast snob.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“I have an excuse – I was born a snob. You had to take lessons.”

“Point made.”

She said, “We should go in.”

“Let’s cancel dinner and sit here.”

“All right. I’ll be right back.”

Susan stood and disappeared into the clubhouse. I watched a forty-foot yawl coming in, its sails full with the southerly breeze, and I could almost feel the helm in my hands and the heeling deck beneath my feet.